


In the Soup

by BatRak



Series: Still Breathing [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Flashbacks, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 13:10:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15486486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BatRak/pseuds/BatRak
Summary: 'To be in the soup': to be in an unpleasant or difficult situation.Bruce finds Alfred in the kitchen.





	In the Soup

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes flashbacks can happen in the most unexpected places.
> 
> Unbeta'd; constructive criticism welcome. 
> 
> More notes at the end of the work.

Bruce found Alfred in the kitchen, the pleasant smell of food cooking drawing him in.

He wordlessly slumped into a bar stool on the kitchen island behind the butler. He was looking forward to dinner, having forgone breakfast and lunch in exchange for drawn out meetings with bickering businessmen and women. He left the manor early that morning after stopping in only to change from one work suit to another; exhaustion and a migraine already set when his last meeting had been followed by an afterhours consultation with Lucius Fox. A flaw in his newest grapple had nearly dislocated his shoulder the previous night during testing, prompting an urgent review over schematics and the requisition of an earlier model. 

Immediately after returning to the manor, Bruce acquiesced reluctantly when Damian met him at the door and demanded a promised sparring session that had already been rescheduled from the previous week. 

Alfred moved from the sink to the stove, setting a glass in front of Bruce as he went. Reaching for the water, Bruce allowed himself to relax his posture, allowed himself to move as slowly and carefully as he could without aggravating his aching muscles. He had already been healing from other injuries before he met with his son, and Damian did not pull his strikes any more than he absolutely had to without actually causing permanent injury. A good habit; Bruce encouraged the control it forced on the boy even at his own expense. 

“There are two unopened bottles of Ibuprofen and Acetaminophen in the drawer to your left,” Alfred didn’t look up from the pot he was stirring. “There’s also a damp rag on the counter for your split lip if you find yourself needing it.” 

Bruce reached up and found blood as he pulled back his fingers. He hadn’t noticed. 

“Thank you, Alfred.” He stood stiffly and moved around the island for the rag. As an afterthought, he stepped towards the fridge, intent on also finding an ice pack. As he did so, he glanced towards the stove, his eye catching a bright orange. He stopped. 

“A carrot bisque,” Alfred explained. “It should be ready shortly.” 

Bruce barely heard him as he stared at the stove, his vision narrowing and a rush filling his ears. A lighter, yellow-orange froth had formed at the top of the soup as it simmered. A sudden weight on his chest and a sense of unease struck him; he felt light headed, a faint coppery sick smell filling his nostrils that didn’t align with the smell of the food in front of him. 

“Bruce? Master Bruce? Are you alright?” Alfred was staring at him, concern filling his voice and a worried look in his eye. “You look absolutely green.”

“No. Yes. I’m fine.” He shook his head, trying to chase the sense of wrongness from his brain. “Just a little tired, I think. Maybe getting a bug.” He was tired, but he didn’t think he was -that- tired. 

“If you’re certain.” Alfred was still frowning. 

Bruce rubbed his temples. “I think I’ll stay in tonight.” 

“I live for the small miracles, sir,” Alfred stated dryly. “Do sit back down.” 

Bruce obeyed, the anxiety he felt still persistent. _What on earth…?_ He wracked his brain, recognizing it for what it was, trying to find a cause. As he did so, Alfred set a bowl in front of him. A memory hit Bruce like a freight train.

 _He was doing chest compressions on an elderly man, fervently awaiting on the medics to arrive as the man’s wife looked on in frozen horror. The victim of an isolated aerosolized toxin courtesy of Poison Ivy, the man turned ashen from hypoxia as his body used up the remaining oxygen in his veins. Congestive heart failure and chronic lung disease had left the man with a weak heart and sensitive to contaminants in the air. A trip to a nursery for flowers bought the man flash pulmonary edema, fluid from his body suddenly filling his lungs and drowning him. His aged body regurgitated an earlier meal as Batman continued compressions, the yellow vomit mixing in with the reddish froth bubbling up and overflowing from his lungs. Batman felt flecks of fluid hitting his exposed face under his cowl from the force of his compressions, the smell of vomit, blood, and body fluid filling his nostrils._  
  
Bruce blinked.

_Oh._

That was months ago. He washed his face and his suit afterwards and had gone back out to finish his patrol. He hadn’t thought of the incident since, didn’t even think it had bothered him; it was not the first time, nor the last time, he had attempted CPR on someone. And it certainly didn’t even rank close to any of the top horrific incidents that haunted his dreams at night or that usually triggered flashbacks. Overall, all things considered and as callous as it sounded, the incident was relatively mild in comparison to the death and destruction he saw on a regular basis. 

Resuscitative efforts even after the arrival of the paramedics had been unsuccessful. _The national rate for full resuscitation in cardiac arrest is a dismal eight percent even with uninterrupted chest compressions,_ his brain supplied. 

He really hadn’t been bothered about it. 

Not at the time.

He lifted the spoon to his mouth, tasting the soup. It did not taste like soup. He couldn’t taste it at all.

Another mouthful, another change as the smell of the bisque contorted in his nostrils, back to that smell of _sick._

He forced himself to swallow several more bites, feeling bile rise in his throat. The bisque warping on his tongue from tasteless to vile. 

It hadn’t bothered him. It was just another day. Another victim in the senseless, never ending war that was Gotham City.

Nausea rose as the image of froth, the fear in the wife’s eyes, the blank stare of the dead man under his hands flashed before his eyes in quick succession. He set the spoon down. He couldn’t finish it. 

“Is the bisque not to your taste, sir?” Alfred asked as he partitioned portions aside in containers for the other residents in the house who had already left for their nightly activities. 

“No, it’s great, Alfred. It’s delicious.” He smiled, but even he could feel it not reaching his eyes. Alfred glared at him, imploringly. “I’m just not feeling well. Nauseous. I really think I am coming down with a stomach virus.”

“If you say so, sir. Can I get you anything else? Ginger ale?” 

“No thanks, I’m fine.” 

_It hadn’t bothered him._

He lifted the spoon again, trying to quell the images in his head.

**Author's Note:**

> The incident described above may not be canon, but I feel like it's not an entirely unlikely scenario. There is no way Bruce Wayne is unaffected by his experiences as Batman, even from more 'underwhelming' scenarios he may have encountered in comparison to things like Apokolips, Bane, the Joker, losing two sons, etc. Seeing death often enough may eventually stop being noteworthy to an extent, but sometimes things still slip through the walls.


End file.
